


Stay still

by chaos_monkey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Established Relationship, M/M, Piss-Drinking, Prompt Fill, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey
Summary: Jaskier convinces Geralt to let him come on a hunt - but he forgets to take care of one important thing, first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 102





	Stay still

**Author's Note:**

> (written for a [tumblr prompt](https://chaos-monkeyy.tumblr.com/post/639958772891222016/ok-ok-hear-me-out-what-if-geralt-allows-jaskier)!)

“No.” 

“Geralt, _please!_ Come on. You’ve said yourself it’s just a single werewolf, you’ve taken them out _plenty_ before. I’ll do whatever you say, just—” 

Jaskier scooted in front of him on the path and Geralt stopped walking with a sigh. 

“Jaskier—” 

“Tell me,” Jaskier said earnestly, fiddling with the collar of Geralt’s shirt and holding his eyes. “Tell me what it will take for you to say yes, and I’ll do it. I’m _dying_ to see one of these beasts in the flesh, and really, what could it possibly do to me with my very own big, scary Witcher right there.” 

Geralt grunted. “Be quiet and don’t fidget for the rest of the day. Then you can come and watch.” 

Jaskier positively _beamed,_ planted a kiss on his mouth— and to Geralt’s surprise, and slight consternation… the bard didn’t say another word. 

* * *

By the time the sun began to set while they made camp, Geralt was realizing he may have underestimated Jaskier. 

The bard had been calm and quiet all day, and even now was settling in comfortably on a stump near the fire, fiddling silently with his lute. He caught Geralt watching and shot him a broad, expectant smile. 

“Fine,” Geralt said grudgingly. “Come if you must. But you listen to _everything_ I say, you _do_ everything I say. Without question or hesitation. And once you’re there, you can’t change your mind,” he warned. “Werewolves have incredibly keen senses. No moving, no leaving. No talking. No noise. At all.” 

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing in place. “So! How do we get ready? What are you bringing with you? Ooh, will you be using one of your potion-y thingies? You are, aren’t you—” 

The bard kept prattling on excitedly, already planning what sort of song to write about it, and Geralt sighed again and started preparing for the hunt. 

He really hoped he wasn’t going to regret this. 

* * *

Jaskier fidgeted. 

He didn’t mean to, he had _fully_ intended to follow every one of Geralt’s dire warnings and stern directives; but he hadn’t quite accounted for just how _long_ they would have to wait in silence, hidden near the beast’s lair with the dark of the forest night all around them and the only light that of the full moon filtering down through the canopy above them. 

It had also not occurred to him that one really ought to find a moment to relieve oneself before embarking upon an extended bout of remaining still and silent, on pain of a Witcher’s wrath. 

Well. And on pain of potentially being eaten, too, he supposed. 

The problem was, he had been rather over-excited by Geralt acquiescing and letting him come along, and the thought simply hadn’t crossed his mind during their preparations— purposely rubbing leaf mulch and dirt into his skin and least-favourite outfit had certainly been quite the new experience— nor during the journey through the darkling woods to their stake-out spot. Unfortunately, they had now been waiting for _hours,_ and the nonexistent need had grown first into a mild bother, and then into a matter of quite some considerable urgency. 

Jaskier bit his lip and surreptitiously shifted; trying, futilely, to alleviate some of the pressure in his midsection. 

It didn’t help, seeing as all the pressure was of an internal sort of nature rather than the normally comfortable fit of his trousers. All it _did_ do was draw Geralt’s attention. 

The witcher’s eyes turned towards him, shining in the darkness just like a cat’s. Jaskier gulped, sweating, unable to stop his thighs from twitching. After a moment, Geralt turned silently away again, and Jaskier resumed his attempts to divert his attention from just how horribly _badly_ he needed to pee. 

It still didn’t help, and before much longer he had started bouncing one leg before catching himself again, fisting both hands in the legs of his trousers. 

Sitting on the large, downed tree trunk beside him, Geralt leaned in so close Jaskier could feel the witcher’s lips brushing his ear. 

“Stay still, bard.” 

Jaskier bit his lip again, and leaned over in turn as Geralt sat up again. “Geralt, I… gods, I need to piss,” he breathed, cheeks flaming at the admission. “I’m sorry, I just…” 

Geralt just shook his head, hair tickling Jaskier’s nose. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Jaskier whispered, as urgently as he could without really _speaking_ so much as just shaping his exhale. “I… I _can’t_ hold it.” 

But even as he said the words, his heart sank and his stomach knotted unpleasantly in realization. Even ignoring the embarrassment that would come of having to piss on the ground at his feet _right there,_ right beside Geralt… that would _certainly_ make too much noise. 

Geralt was watching him again— frowning, Jaskier was certain— and Jaskier took a slow, deep breath in and out as he steeled himself. Clearly there was only one choice. 

At least he was wearing his least favourite clothes. 

He swallowed hard, trying to relax enough to let go, which proved to be remarkably, almost unfairly difficult. Granted, he was fighting a lifetime of conditioning not to wet himself, but given just how _badly_ he had to go, he would have expected it to be a tad easier. 

He finally managed to let one brief, hot trickle of urine out into his underclothes before his body unconsciously cut it off almost immediately— and Geralt _tensed_ beside him. 

Jaskier wasn’t even aware of the witcher actually _moving,_ and then Geralt’s hand was— Geralt’s hand was on his cock, squeezing, and Geralt’s breath was hot at his ear again in a near-soundless hiss. 

“ _What are you doing._ ” 

Jaskier barely bit off an _eep._ “Wet trousers aren’t the most comfortable, but—” 

Geralt’s fingers tightened, sending a confused swirl of interest through him, despite the urgent need _throbbing_ hot and sharp through his aching bladder. “It will _smell_ that, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier froze, a thousand and one fervent curses tumbling through his mind and his need abruptly seeming to multiply a hundredfold at the realization that he really, _really_ couldn’t go. 

He couldn’t even sit there and _purposely piss himself._

Oh, he was so, so fucked. 

Geralt’s hand was still on still him, gripping his slightly damp cock through his clothing, and Jaskier squeezed his thighs together, trembling. Flushes of hot-cold panic were creeping up his spine as need throbbed painfully through his gut, he couldn’t go and he couldn’t hold it and he couldn’t— he couldn’t— 

Something inside him cramped helplessly and Jaskier felt another trickle of wet heat leak into his underclothes. He thought he heard the faintest sound of a curse from Geralt, and then the witcher was silently slipping down to kneel between his feet, fingers deftly undoing his fly. 

Before Jaskier even had time to _think_ the words “What are you doing?”, Geralt’s mouth was closing over his mostly-soft cock. To his mortification, a brief, hard jet of piss escaped him at that tantalizingly _wet_ warmth, straight into Geralt’s mouth. He managed to cut it off, trembling and confused and trying to figure out how the fuck to apologize profusely _and_ tell Geralt that even a blowjob was _really_ not going to help him hold it at this point, while still remaining silent— and then Geralt patted his leg briskly with one hand and pressed the other over his lower belly. 

By the time Jaskier moved past the all-encompassing flash of cramping pain and back into the realms of conscious thought, it was already too late. He could feel Geralt swallowing around him while he pissed, all that pressure flooding out of him in an unstoppable rush and leaving both dizzying euphoria and bone-deep humiliation in its wake. To make matters worse, finally letting go combined with the familiar feeling of Geralt’s mouth on his cock felt _so fucking good_ that he couldn’t stop himself from stiffening gradually as he emptied himself down the witcher’s throat. 

It seemed to go on forever, the hard stream slowing but still going strong, and only eventually weakening to a long, drawn-out trickle before it finally, finally, sputtered to a stop with a few final intermittent and embarrassing squirts and dribbles over Geralt’s tongue. Jaskier’s pulse was thumping his ears, his face so hot he was certain the bright red of his cheeks must be visible for _miles,_ and his entire midsection finally, blessedly, _achingly_ empty. 

He felt Geralt pull off, his thickened, wet cock twitching between his legs at the touch of cool night air before the witcher tucked him away and silently re-fastened his trousers for him. 

Jaskier was still casting frantically about for what the _hell_ he was supposed to say at that point— _thank you? I’m sorry? Please never look at me ever ever again?—_ when Geralt went tense and perfectly still between his thighs. Jaskier froze too, not even daring to breathe, his ears _straining—_

By the time he heard the telltale crackle of brush, the raspy breathing of something _large_ and very close as it passed by, Geralt had already disappeared silently into the deep shadows of the forest. 


End file.
